The First Amendment, Null & Void...Because Mom Says So

As you may have noticed, it's the end of the year. And everyone who's anyone who writes for a blog or a webzine or a newspaper is busy making lists of the "Best Of" and the "Worst Of" and the Most Outrageous Of" for 2008. I normally shy away from jumping on the bandwagon, but I love lists. So I decided to make my own. It's not a "best of" or "worst of". No, I decided the greatest way to wrap up another year was simply to make a list of...

"Topics Banned From the Eben Family's 2008 Christmas Dinner Table"

I should explain that this list is one that is made by my mother, and is formed comprehensively. As the meal, and lively conversation, takes place, my mother continues to add to the list as necessary, and as she sees fit. Basically any subjects that would incite any kind of conflict whatsoever are added to the list. There were only four forbidden topics this year, which either indicates that my siblings and I have become more civil, less intelligent, abnormally non-confrontational, or altogether nonverbal. I'm hoping it's the first. Anyway, here's the list:

#1) Jesus (specifically, how to best share his love with rock climbers)
#2) Politics (specifically, the impending Obama presidency)
#3) Music (specifically, Sufjan Stevens and his musical genius or lack-there-of)
and...
#4) High Fructose Corn Syrup (I'm not kidding)

There you have it. I, of course, will probably find it necessary to write more about the beginning of the new year, because I'm sentimental like that, and because I've taken a few days off and have a little more time than normal to write. So, stay tuned.

Sheep Poop and Sinners

I love NPR. I've been an avid listener since high school. By "love", I don't simply mean that it is my primary news source. I mean "love" as in I actually look forward to Science Friday, and Talk of the Nation, and I feel like Terry Gross and I are (or at least could be) good friends. I adore her. Weird. I know. But it's like a work of art to me: form and function all rolled into one little radio station.

Anyhow, while trying to counter the influence of high school drama on my life (it is embarrassingly easy to get sucked into when you are around teenagers all the time - like a cultural vacuum) I was reading up on a few news stories on www.npr.org this morning. I ran across this feature article: Selling the Bawdy Side of Christmas. It's a fairly average little commentary about the ever-increasing secularization of Christmas. Nothing, really, that I didn't already know. What I did really enjoy, however were the following included quotes (italics added by me) by Amy Laura Hall, a professor of theological ethics at Duke University (regarding the holiday juxtaposition of sacred and secular that has so many religious folk in a tizzy these days) :

"Christmas was, from the beginning, both holy and horrible, sacred and scary. There isn't an easy way to make it all hygienic, because the incarnation mixes God up with sheep poop and sinners." In the end, she says, it's somewhat fitting that Christmas has become an admixture of naughtiness and niceness. The contemplation of the humanity of the holiday — as well as the holiness — may make it more real than ever. As Hall puts it, "We doubt, with Thomas the disciple, that a Jesus all spiffed up and safe is real."

Kudos to Miss Hall. This is the most spiritually true and profound thing I have heard all week.

Today I moved into my new office. My first ever office. Prior to this week, I have used my home (no internet), various coffee shops (great, but not a single decent one open year round in the towns I live or work in most often), my car (no room for a file cabinet...also no mailing address) and various hiking trails throughout the Black Hills (tough to explain to the boss) as office space. So, though it scares me a bit to have a single, designated location at which I am expected to be much of the time, (I had a job like that once before - I'm so over it) it will probably be good for me. It will hopefully help me structure my time a bit more. And, save me about $30/week in coffee money.

After we got all my stuff moved in - which is not much, at this point - I sat down (in a wooden, kitchen table-type chair, because I don't have a desk chair yet) and...wondered, "What do I do next?" Since I'm not really sure what people with my job actually DO with their offices most of the time, I decided to start with the obvious. Decorate.

And then I remembered that I don't really have a budget for decorating an office right before Christmas. So I just sat there for a bit and looked out the window - which happens to look right out on the Mickelson trail - and realized that I might need to board up the window...or I'll just end up back on the trail, calling it my office again...

I know the sun's still shining when I close my eyes...

Yesterday, in an effort to cure my cabin fever, I decided to run around in the snowy woods with an old friend and a new friend all afternoon. So I was in a cave...literally, in a cave...when my grandmother had a heart attack, and I missed multiple phone calls of varying urgency from family members. When I came back into town and they were finally able to reach me, I met my parents and my sister and brother in the hospital cardiac cath lab waiting room.

After they moved my grandma out of recovery and into a room in the ICU, I stood by her bed, making dumb jokes about the terrible decor and watched while they hooked and unhooked wires and tubes and pumps and electro-sticky-tabs from her tired, slight body. Then I had to leave her there, because they had to remove a pressure device from her artery, and I would have been in the way.

So I went to the store to buy eggs. On the way there, I was rear-ended. The lady that hit me said she was very sorry. I got her phone number, but I don't think I will ever call her. It's barely a scratch. I bought my eggs and went home and watched my friend make brownies in my kitchen, since I don't really like to make brownies. And I drank coffee while another friend tuned my guitar, since I'm not very good at tuning my guitar. And when it was tuned, I hummed harmonies while my friends played my bongos (I'm not so hot at the bongos, either) and my guitar and my tambourine and it made beautiful tribal-sounding worship music.

After they left, a different friend called to tell me a funny story about his blind date and an almost funny joke that I can't remember at all. And my mom called to tell me that my Grandma was already looking better than she had looked when I saw her. Then I crawled in bed under my down comforter (God bless the man that invented down comforters) lined my face up just right with the slanty slice of moonlight pouring across my pillows and prayed for my Grandma. I prayed that she would heal up fast and not have any complications, but mostly I prayed that she would know how valuable she is, and how loved she is, and how much grace is still to be had in life, just when it seems we must have used it all up.

Red Beans & Rice...

I am sitting on the kitchen counter next to my stove. In my sweats. Reading Anne Lamott and listening to Flogging Molly, and stirring my red beans and rice every once in a while so it doesn’t stick to the pot while it simmers. It is the day following a snow day. I hate the day following a snow day. It’s like the day following a sick day from work, when you wake up and realize that your throat still hurts, but not as much as it did, and you still have a headache, but it is not quite a legitimate one to justify another day off. So it is with the day following a snow day. You can’t, with a clear conscience, curl up in the papasan and watch 6 more episodes of The Office on DVD. If you want to at least be up to par with the rest of productive humanity in your area, you need to go dig your car out of its snowy cocoon and get with the program. Which doesn’t really explain why I’m still in my sweats at two in the afternoon…

My two-cents about todays election...

I am far more disturbed by the way I see the Church in our country handling this election (and most elections, for that matter), than by the thought of any one candidate taking over the presidency.


“How we need to be freed from the illusion that we’re doing anything kingdom by voting a certain way every couple years! How we need to wake up to the truth that we vote for or against the Kingdom every day of our life. We vote by how we spend our money and time. We vote by where we live, who we hang out with, the kind of car we drive and the kind of clothes we wear. In the Kingdom, we vote with our lives, not in a booth expressing our opinion about what Caesar should do.” - Dr. Gregory Boyd

"The Truth is Out There...

...I'd go looking for it if I wasn't so busy looking for my car keys."

I have written and deleted no less than six essays on the topic of the circus that is the 2008 presidential election. At this point, I am not sorry to say that I am still undecided on my vote. I've been holding out on account of lack of good information and lack of any idea as to where to get good information. As I'm sure you are all aware, educating yourself on "the issues" is easily a full-time job, and and even as a relatively well-read and educated citizen, wading through the BS is overwhelming and disheartening. However, I recently stumbled across www.2008election.procon.org. As far as I can tell, it is relatively naked facts about the candidates and their stances on various issues. I'm sure there is a slant hidden in there somewhere, but I haven't found it yet. If any of you are feeling as bewildered as I have been about the situation, I encourage you to check it out.

Materialism and The Epic Monopoly Battle

It's a classic tale of the glorious rise and subsequent fall of someone to and from economic power. A tale of scandal and corruption and greed. A tale I like to call, "The Epic Monopoly Battle." It all started on a snowy afternoon in Bozeman, Montana. One Starbucks employee, one Young Life staffer, and several high schoolers. None of us what you might call "exceedingly wealthy." But over the course of ten hours, (that's right - ten hours) we went from rags to riches and...back to rags again. Except for Sharon, who won the game and conquered the world with some $30 billion racked up on her Monopoly Visa. (If you are not familiar with the new electronic variety of the classic board game, you might want to check it out...unless you are a purist and have an affinity for pastel paper money.) I came in second place with...zero dollars. I fought to the death, but just like in real life, I had about a trillion dollars and a hotel on Broadway at lunch time and by 3:oopm I was living in a cardboard box under a bridge and fending off evil rent collectors (i.e. Sharon) with Snickers Bars. Such is life.

I struggle constantly with having a Godly view of finances. I can be very judgmental of affluent people and often have guilt for having nice things or spending money on things that aren't necessities. Something deep inside of me longs to purge my life of all my possessions and the way they almost own me rather than me owning them. I think: I could give it all away and be much more contented. On the other hand, I want stuff. I want and want and want. I want expensive Patagonia baselayers and paintings by local artists (particularly the orange and red one of leaves that is hanging by the door at Common Grounds in Spearfish) to put in my living room and a car I can talk off-roading and a kayak and a tent and a plane ticket so I can spend a week floating on my back in the Mediterranean Sea. And shoes; oh, how I want shoes! I also want to eat at Q-Doba every day, and believe me, that adds up pretty fast.

Biblically, Jesus talks about the perks of poverty - it seems he feels that generally speaking, people who are just getting by are more apt to have correct world views, a greater dependency on him, and increased love and compassion for others. On the other hand, in the old testament, God was often blessing the good guys with riches. So it's obviously not the being rich that is the problem.

I suppose it boils down to healthy balance - constantly remembering that what I have is not mine...but that it is entrusted to me to manage with wisdom and generosity.

Hmmm. Any thoughts from the rest of you?

Bridesmaid Dresses, Baby Birds, and a Broken Heart

...plus bluegrass, bicycles, and being home.

Part III

I promised I'd finish out this polytopical (I think I just made that word up) post sooner or later...and I'm following through. Even if it takes me all summer.

On the subject of bluegrass music:

#1) I really, really, really like it.
#2) Unfortunately, the only bluegrass I've really gotten to listen to this summer was half of the gospel show on the tail end of the Black Hills Bluegrass Festival the morning after returning from Young Life camp.
#3) Jalan Crossland will be in Hill City a month from today! Oh, be still my beating heart!!! (There's nothing quite like a banjo and a man who can play it...)

If this is my biggest concern, I have nothing to worry about...

I decided after three years of not wearing my retainers and increasingly crooked teeth and an ever growing sense of guilt over the thousands of dollars my parents invested in braces while I was in high school...to start wearing my retainers again. Now I have a perpetual tooth ache, and a still imperfect smile. Humph.

Bridesmaid Dresses, Baby Birds, and a Broken Heart

..also bluegrass, bicycles, and being home.

Part 2

I suffer from apathy. This is a pretty huge problem on many levels...but especially critical when your job is based on feeling passionate about a need in the lives of other people. And it's not necessarily that I don't care at all. But I definitely don't care enough. I mean, there are lots of things we say we care about. I care about the environment. I care about political activism. I care about homelessness. I care about nuclear warfare. I care about being healthy and buying locally and getting out of debt. But we all have priorities...and things we really, really care about. Things that affect the way we live and the decisions we make.

So when it comes to the kids that I work with, I frequently feel convicted that I don't care as much as Jesus wants me to. I love them, but I know I am usually complacent with my love for them. Complacent with their hearts. And when I really think about it, complacency is not okay.

I don't think Christ is complacent in his love for me. I don't think he's okay with me being where I'm at. I know that he loves me...right where I am...no small print, no strings attached, no prerequisites. But that love -true love- is only love if it desires more for me. A parent loves their child immensely, just how they are in the present, but still desires change and growth and victory over struggles. Therefore, I'm thinking that's how he wants me to love other people. A love that is not content with the current state of affairs.

This is a love that is a bit foreign to our human way of thinking.

So, in the last year, I've found myself praying over and over and over again for God to help me not be complacent. To see people the way he sees people. To love people the way he loves people. To break my heart for the things his heart breaks for.

Just a little tip...don't pray for something like a broken heart without first considering the consequences. That is what I did. Because to be honest, when I prayed for those things...the seeing people and loving people and broken heart stuff...all stuff that sounds quite noble, I prayed for those things for that reason: because they sounded noble. I didn't give any serious thought to what the ramifications of such a request might be. I also didn't take God very seriously...I think I was thinking he wasn't going to deliver.

I was wrong.

Sometimes I imagine what God might be saying when he's working in my life...and this time it went something like this: "Oh, so you want to know what it feels like to love people? What it feels like to really love people who are hurting and broken and running from their only source of hope and freedom and light? Okay. Fine. I'll give you just a teeny, tiny glimpse...because that's all you can handle."

So just for the record...broken hearts hurt. They suck. For the first time in my life, over the last few weeks, I have felt a sincere, urgent sympathy and compassion and broken-ness and love for some of the kids I work with. I have wept and lost sleep and been discontented with their current state of affairs. With their need for Christ. And it has been a very good thing.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not cured of apathy. And I'm not claiming to suddenly have this superhuman ability to love people just like Jesus loves them. Like I said earlier, I think it's just this little sliver of what Christ's love is like. But if this is just a sliver, can you imagine the immensity of his love for us?

"This is but the fringes..." Shane & Shane

Bridesmaid Dresses, Baby Birds, and a Broken Heart

also...bluegrass, bicycles and being home.

Part 1
One of my favorite features of my little house in the woods is the wrap-around porch. From the wicker chairs on the south-facing side of the house, you look across the horse pasture at a grove of aspens, behind which are ponderosa pines and blue spruce covering a hill that rises to where the ridge meets the blue sky. It's pure Black Hills beauty at it's best. When I first moved into the house, I couldn't wait to sit on the porch in the mornings - drinking coffee, smelling the pines, watching the ridge change color with the rising sun, and listening to the birds...oh! It would be divine!

However, I quickly discovered that, though the porch is attached to my house, it is not mine. Nope. It belongs exclusively to a small black and white swallow who set up camp in the birdhouse directly above the wicker chairs. And she is violently opposed to my watching the ridge change color with the sunrise while sitting anywhere near her home. I tried on several occasions to be diplomatic about the situation...explained to her (while she repeatedly dive-bombed my head) that I meant no harm, that it was a big porch, that we could peacefully co-habitate the space. But she would have none of it. So I gave in and settled for the east-facing side of the porch. Fine. She can have the view of the pasture. I'll take the view of the...shed.

Well, after spending most of the month of June away from home, I thought maybe I would try again. With the exception of coming and going, I had not spent any time on my porch in several weeks and thought maybe that was adequate time for little Miss Birdie to reconsider her hostilities. So this morning I grabbed my cup of coffee and ever-so-stealthily slipped out the screen door and into the wicker chair. I maybe had three minutes of peace and quiet and the aroma of pines when all of a sudden, from across the pasture, came the angry bird...chirping and swooping for me to leave. Then I heard it: the tiniest little baby chirps coming from inside the birdhouse. Aha. She was not just an angry bird. She was an angry momma bird...just doing her job. Mmmm. Warm fuzzies. As I was getting up to vacate the premises, I spotted a little ball of gray fluff on the deck below the bird house. It was one of the baby birds who had fallen from the nest, and not survived.

Now, I know that in the grand scheme of things, this is only a minor tragedy, if that. But I felt this strange pang of sorrow over the situation. I suddenly felt like I was six years old...that I should scoop up the baby bird and go running to my mom. And then I felt annoyed. At God. In Matthew 10:29, Jesus said that not even a sparrow falls to the ground apart from the knowledge of the Father. So, my question is, why do they fall in the first place? If he knows all about it, then why can't he keep them from falling? Maybe it shouldn't matter to me so much, but it obviously matters to the momma bird, who was violently, instinctively protective of her babies.

And if he cares about baby birds, then what about Luke and Mary's baby Josh? If God sees baby birds fall, then I know that he sees the mysterious anemia that continues to plague Josh's little body. I know that he hears the fervent prayers of Luke and Mary, of myself, of friends and family across the country. I know he hears. But I don't know why he doesn't heal him.

I know he sees Riss and Jade...two little girls that he knit tightly into my heart. I know he sees them and their precarious circumstances...being tossed about like little leaves in the wind...never knowing where they will land next. I know he sees them. But I don't know why he doesn't rescue them.

I know some things, but there are many more I don't understand.

I apologize to the momma swallow for being a perceived threat to her precious babies. I apologize for the loss of her little one. And I take my coffee to the east porch.

I almost met my match.

"When in doubt, call a man." - My Mom.

This is her philosophy when it comes to lifting heavy objects, smelling rotten food, and fixing all things mechanical. Don't get me wrong. She is a very intelligent, capable woman. She, like many women, has just happened to choose a few (or a slew of) tasks which she detests and/or feels men are more...accustomed to.

I beg to differ, and have thus rebelled on this subject for many years now. My mantra has, since high school, been "Never, ever call a man." This motto has led to me changing my own tires in the dark on the side of the interstate (note to my high school and middle school girls: I do not endorse this kind of dangerous, irresponsible, high-risk behavior), threaten my college roommate with physical violence when she suggested we not fix our own broken toilet, and devising some very creative ways of moving large pieces of furniture.

But, to all who feel that this "fierce independence" is a negative trait, I want to you all to know that, just the other night, I found myself in a situation that, well, necessitated...um...

...calling a man.

That's right. I said it. I did it. I telephoned my father for assistance.

You see, it was really a dire situation. I want to be sure to clarify that it did not involve car trouble, heavy objects, leaky faucets or pickle jars with impossibly tight lids. Nope. Much, MUCH worse than that. A dead mouse.

I was just going about my business the other evening, chatting on the phone with Em about natural child birth and cloth versus disposable diapers (I'm getting old, aren't I?), fixing up some late-night mac'n'cheese, when I noticed a slightly mysterious odor emanating from one of my kitchen cupboards. I dismissed the smell, because my house is old, and has a lot of mysterious odors. Opening a drawer to look for a wooden spoon released a more pungent frangrance. The kind that should not be ignored. Hrmmm. With fear and trepidation I decided to investigate further. I quick peek into the cupboard under the sink revealed a completely rancid smell and the source of the funk. Poor little Mickey. He had not gone quietly. Evidence suggests he fought to the death. But when your little head is tightly clamped in a spring-loaded device of torture, and you don't have opposable thumbs, and there is no one around to hear your cries for help, your don't really stand much of a chance.

I would like to take just a moment at this point in the story to state that I do not have a weak stomach. I worked for a podiatrist for five years and saw lot's and lot's of repulsive things...fully avulsed toenails, gangrenous infections, amputations...that sort of thing. But nothing makes me weak in the knees like a dead animal...especially one that is mangled...and reeks...and is in my kitchen...lying in a puddle of blood...and has apparently been so for more than a few days.

So, when I gained my composure and bid farewell to Emily, I sucked up my pride and did what any self-respecting feminist does in this situation. I called my dad who lives 25 minutes away and asked him to come handle the situation. Let me point out here, too, that my dad is the first person to encourage me to call if I ever need anything (for some reason he's not a big fan of me changing my own tires on the side of the road in the dark...?). So I was merely complying with his wishes and giving him opportunity to be needed, come to the rescue of his little girl and exercise his masculinity. And outrage of all outrages...

HE WOULDN'T COME!!! He told me to call, so I called, and HE WOULDN'T COME!!! Something about it being midnight, and raining, and the mouse being dead and harmelss. He told me to take care of it myself. He even offered me a few suggestions. Paper towels. Plastic bags. Rubber gloves. But he WOULDN'T COME!

You see? You see why I don't call men? Because they WANT to be needed by women, but when we are truly in a desperate circumstance, they want you to deal with your OWN dead mouse. Figures....ha ha.

So, in closing, I want you all to know that I did take care of my own dead mouse. With a stick. Holding my breath. And trying not to look. It was quite traumatic. But, now that I've faced that fear, I'm pretty much sure that there isn't anything left that I can't handle...

Spring Has Sprung

My mom's a good mom, and therefore instilled in me the conviction that it is a sin to be indoors on a beautiful day. Today is such a day. It is 60 degrees and sunny and sometime between yesterday and today the grass turned green. But I am supposed to be nailing down details on next Sunday's Young Life Mattress Run. So I've confined myself to a dark corner of Dunn Bro's, far away from windows, so as to remove the temptation of fresh air and sunshine. This kind of offense might be justifiable, were I actually being productive and getting my work done and getting the Mattress Run planned. But I'm not. I've been here an hour and all I've done for the event was open the word document with the information. Distractions abound; I currently have a terrible case of wanderlust, a growing list of articles and books I want to be reading, and a 10K to be training for. Also, I've been suppressing my creativity for months now, and I hear that if you do that for long enough, um, your hair will all fall out. Okay, I just made that up. But, still, it can't be good for you, right? Hrm. Alright. I'm going to get down to business and then have time to goof off guilt free. Yep. That's the plan, Scotty. And here I go.

There's No Place Like Home

I just recently came home from a week in Florida. I was there for a Young Life conference and had a fabulous time...um...conferring. A week is a good length of time for that type of January getaway. Just long enough to stockpile some serious sunshine and then realize that I miss the Black Hills terribly.

With the exception of one half-day trip to Cocoa beach, I spent the rest of my time in Florida trapped in what I like to call the T.I.P. (Tourist Industry Prison,) a roughly 50,000 acre block of land just outside of Orlando City Limits, owned mostly by Disney, consisting entirely of theme parks and resorts, and bearing very little resemblance to the "real world" what so ever. It is sort of a realm of existence unto itself, where corporately brainwashed people are willing to pay nine dollars for a bottle of water and fifteen dollars (a piece) for collectible character pins and twenty-three dollars for a parking space, all in the name of American-style escapism. And while the palm trees are lovely and the warm, temperate climate constitutes year-round outdoor living, you never really feel like you've been outside. Thus, my quasi-vacation-invoked claustrophobia. I came home with a desperate need to just "get outdoors;" to wander on a path where you don't expect to see a friendly, underpaid, cleanly uniformed employee with gloves and a "litter-picker-upper" thingy and a trash bag around the next corner. You know, a place where the landscape hasn't been landscaped.

My plans were to spend today wandering around somewhere up in the hills. I didn't have to work, and I'm finally on the uphill side of this nasty cold-virus thing...so I was rearing to go. Unfortunately, it's just too dang cold. I mean, I'm no wimp, but jeepers! It's freezing out there! I have yet to acquire the Patagonia Capilene Baselayers (that I so smoothly sell lots of at my little shop) required to make hiking in single digit temps safe or reasonable. So I've the next best thing. Took up temporary residence at my usual corner table at a coffee shop to spend a few hours people watching, working (or at least thinking about working), writing, and catching up on my newest interest...reading. It's amazing the things that fall by the wayside when you let life control your life.

So, with that, I'm going to move across the coffee shop to a bigger table and join about half of my family for lunch. Then I'll probably move back to this table and read some more.

Life is good.

(And P.S., no, I'm not missing Florida yet.)

The Proverbial Elbow Jab...

"Let us consider how we may spur one another toward love and good deeds. Let us not give up meeting together, as some are in the habit of doing, but let us encourage one another - and all the more as you see the Day approaching." - Hebrews 10:24-25

I just had coffee with an old friend who was home for the holidays. I hadn't seen him in at least two years, and not only was it good to catch up with him and see what he's up to, it was really a blessing to hear him talk about the amazing ways God is working in his life. It seems a rare thing to see someone genuinely excited about Jesus, to hear someone speak in actual anticipation of what God is doing. Here. Right now. In real life.
The conversation was a breath of fresh air. I left feeling encouraged, challenged, and more excited about what God is doing in my life and in the lives of people around me. I left with an increased desire to be in God's word. I left hoping that I bless and encourage people with my words the same way I was just blessed and encouraged.
My aforementioned coffee friend "spurred me towards love and good deeds," you could say. My Koine Greek is a little rusty so I can't tell you precisely what kind of word picture the writer of Hebrews had in mind when he wrote that verse. I did, however, check out a few other versions and found translators also using the verbs provoke, stir, encourage, stimulate, incite, motivate, and promote in place of the word "spur."
All interesting words, no? They don't all necessarily imply mere gentle suggestions. I mean, spurs - the literal kind...worn on cowboy boots...to make horses run fast - are a little uncomfortable. That's why they are effective. Now, if the horse is receptive the cowboy only needs to tap the horse with the spurs, and the horse goes, and the cowboy lays off with the spurs, right? But if the horse is stubborn, or distracted, or lazy, the cowboy's going to have to "spur" a little harder. It's going to be less comfortable.
The other interesting verb in that verse is "consider." We're not just instructed to spur people, we're told to "consider how." Give it some thought. Roll is around in your brain a bit. Think about different ways to do the "spurring." Some of us are motivated, stirred and provoked in different ways than other people. I, for instance, am the stubborn horse most of the time. I take a lot of poking. A lot of prodding. A lot of elbow jabs. And I am very grateful for my friends who are not afraid to elbow jab me on occasion.